George Miller was afraid of being scolded, so he immediately started bragging and flattering: “Since we’ve already invited everyone, and it’s the last night anyway. But I think I’ll definitely sleep well tonight—with you here, Mr. Clark, what could I possibly be afraid of?! Nothing at all.”

William Clark just glanced at him, saying meaningfully, “Then remember what you just said.”

Around midnight that night, George Miller was awakened by the sound of cats yowling from somewhere.

The sound was both miserable and piercing, like a baby crying, but with a longer pitch—sometimes far away, sometimes suddenly close by. The whole neighborhood was submerged in the thick darkness of night.

George Miller opened his eyes a crack and vaguely saw a patch of light. In his groggy state, he wondered, why does the moon look green tonight?

A few seconds later, he suddenly jolted awake.

When keeping vigil, he didn’t sleep in the bedroom, but in the living room. Facing inward, directly opposite Charles Sullivan’s funeral altar—how could he possibly see the moon??

So the light he saw was...

George Miller swallowed dryly and opened his eyes again. He saw half a pale human face floating beside the altar, silently lighting a red candle. The tiny flame flickered without wind, casting a grayish-green glow.

Shit...

George Miller’s scalp tingled, and he tumbled off the sofa bed—yet there was no sound.

As the world spun, he tried to shake awake the old men who were supposed to be keeping vigil with him, only to find that the makeshift beds were completely empty—not a single person in sight.

It was as if he had always been sleeping here alone.

George Miller nearly lost his mind. He scrambled to get up, but his legs had no strength at all.

He kicked out several times! In his struggle, something icy cold suddenly patted the back of his head.

George Miller let out a howl, and then couldn’t stop, screaming like a rubber chicken trampled by ten thousand feet. Until someone forcibly stuffed something into his mouth, and a cold voice spoke by his ear: “Are you trying to die?”

That voice...

George Miller’s fingers trembled, his nostrils flaring. It took several seconds before he turned his wide eyes and saw William Clark holding a lighter in one hand and pinning down his flailing hand with the other, looking very much like he’d set him on fire if he moved again.

The air was frozen for a long moment before George Miller finally realized that the person silently lighting candles at the altar just now was this very ancestor.

Once he understood, he felt like he’d survived a disaster—he even started to cry...

Really crying.

William Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, first warning, “If you scream again, I’ll throw you out,” then removed the wad of white mourning cloth from his mouth.

George Miller sobbed, “Bro, I was counting on you to give me courage, why are you scaring me yourself? Can’t you just sleep properly?”

“……”

William Clark stuffed the cloth back in.

He hauled George Miller up and suddenly, out of nowhere, asked, “Do you want to know what people mean when they say you’re ‘clean’?”

George Miller, halfway through crying, didn’t get it: “Huh?”

William Clark said, “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Before George Miller could react, he barked, “Close your eyes.”

George Miller did so instinctively, and then felt William Clark firmly pat the top of his head, then both shoulders. Suddenly, there was a slight heat before his eyes, accompanied by the scent of burning incense.

After circling three times, the heat faded away.

“Open your eyes,” William Clark said.

George Miller was a little scared, but still opened his eyes—and was stunned.

He was still in the The Sullivan Family living room, the furnishings unchanged, but the colors and outlines all had a bluish-gray tinge, giving off an indescribable eerie feeling.

Even stranger, he caught sight of the dressing mirror not far away. He almost screamed again.

The mirror reflected two figures, presumably himself and William Clark.

The reason it was “presumably” was because he could barely recognize them. Their features hadn’t changed, but their skin was shockingly pale.

He actually had a mole on the tip of his nose, and a faint childhood scar at the corner of his eye, but in the mirror, there was nothing—none of the tiny flaws ordinary people have. It was clearly his face, yet it seemed like someone else’s, staring back at him unblinkingly.

In such a deep, shadowy environment, he really looked like prime ghost material.

“What is this?” George Miller’s voice cracked.

William Clark said, “This is what I see when I close my eyes.”

George Miller: “Why do I look like this?”

William Clark said, “What you usually see is your physical form; what you see now is your spiritual form.”

“Normal people have wisps of black energy swirling around them, more or less. You don’t. That’s what ‘clean’ means.” William Clark’s voice sounded even colder in the night.

George Miller shuddered, looking at him in panic, only then realizing that he, too, looked spotless—but with a subtle... difference.

Because William Clark’s outline was semi-transparent, like a phantom.

“Mr. Clark, you...” George Miller stammered, “Why are you like this?”

William Clark said softly, “Because I’m missing my spiritual form. I’m empty. When I find all the pieces, I’ll be free. That’s why I’m here.”

George Miller listened in a daze, both confused and a little frightened. He was about to ask more when another round of cat-like shrieking came from outside the window.

He jumped in fright and turned to look—only to see three elongated shadows reflected on the marble floor, twisting and morphing into figures on all fours, arching their backs in a bizarre, eerie posture.